Every summer
a burden of memory...
My heart needs to be a song,
beating from a dry moon gone hollow...
And I trace my scarred fingers
across a heaven's river of endless...
Locked in a lighthouse
full of melancholy windows...
I have known rain and weathered hands
stuck in time from a war in land...
Hear our cries of devastation
while we fight for room to breathe...
I sense traffic's vitality
anticipating movement...
A foreign pen can become my defense.
Sometimes clean hands won't inspire...
What note can I play
on this imaginary sky...
You conjure the part of a whisper
ever moving yet yearning...
Wondering if you'll notice
these words I construct for you...
Nor are we slaves of popularity,
prisoners of style and peer pressure...